The brief: write a post under the topic “sun” in 250 words (and only read the brief with 20 minutes to deadline). The result:
Without warning, the sun exploded into the sky. With the kind of searing delivery only produced in in desert. Where everything refracts in a yellow white glare and your eyes are squint before they are even open.
The Bedouin sat on his haunches and watched me wake. We were sleeping on the beach. The huts lining the shore were too hot, even in the coolest parts of the night, and we chose to sleep right on the edge of the sea, where the faintest breeze whispered and danced. Palm trees fringed our sandy bed. And camels, minded by tiny children, wandered through and around us like random, surreal clouds.
The Bedouin was patient. He’d beckoned us in the market two days before. Poured us hot mint tea in fine, hand painted glass tumblers. Taught us to drink it through a sugar lump. Told us about the journey into the Sinai. The camel ride. The tents. The stars. The story telling. We were hooked. He said he’d come for us on the Wednesday.
And so, that morning, there he was. Waiting. Like a mirage in the blast of the morning light. And as we packed our bags with bleary eyes and heads filled with the pounding regret of Egyptian alcohol, he said with a wink and a grin; “Pack light, my friends. All journeys need nothing but the will and an open heart.”